


Run

by nana_banana



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dead/Dying Derek Hale, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Open to Interpretation, Post-Season/Series 04, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nana_banana/pseuds/nana_banana
Summary: Stiles was on his knees where Derek had fallen.  Where Derek had, with a pained whimper, collapsed onto his side and lain still.  Stiles felt cold, kneeling in the middle of the silent preserve.  His body trembled minutely, and his hands shook at his sides.  Derek's name fell in a breathy whisper from Stiles' lips, and he reached out, placing his hands weakly upon soaked wolf fur, gently moving him.  He nudged, tentative.  But Derek did not stir.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	Run

**Author's Note:**

> Here's something I wrote really quickly today bc it wouldn't leave me alone.

Stiles was on his knees where Derek had fallen. Where Derek had, with a pained whimper, collapsed onto his side and lain still. Stiles felt cold, kneeling in the middle of the silent preserve. His body trembled minutely, and his hands shook at his sides. Derek's name fell in a breathy whisper from Stiles' lips, and he reached out, placing his hands weakly upon soaked wolf fur, gently moving him. He nudged, tentative. But Derek did not stir.

Or maybe Stiles was shaking too badly to notice.

He heard the laughing then, the crunch of heavy boots upon leaves and the mulch of the forest floor. But as the two pairs of footsteps came ever closer, all Stiles could think about were Derek's final words before he shifted into a wolf.

_“Stiles, run.”_

Run.

It was a familiar word, the meaning of which Derek had used many times over the years in various different ways. With Peter. With the kanima. In Mexico. And so many times more that Stiles had lost count over the years. But despite the familiarity, Stiles had never heeded it, had never listened. He had never learned to obey Derek's warnings.

Something like regret clenched at his heart where it beat harshly in his chest. He breathed, the sound a shudder in the stillness around them.

“Alright, kid, back away from the animal,” said a voice, but Stiles did not raise his head, still staring down at where he could barely see Derek's wolf form with the little light of the crescent moon above.

“Move it,” said a second voice, rougher and not nearly as patient. “That's our hunt right there. Run home.”

_“Stiles, run.”_

Derek's wrecked voice echoed in his head. And Stiles could still see Derek standing before him, wrenching off his shirt and tossing it to the ground where it landed with a wet squelch. He could see Derek's back muscles rippling, filled with gashes and bullet wounds as he breathed heavily. Wetly. Harshly. Like he could barely breathe. And, still, he had said it.

_“Stiles, run.”_

But if after years of Derek begging him to flee, Stiles had still not learned to heed the warning, there was no chance in hell he would listen to it now. Not from two hunters who had felled Derek Hale. Not from the two stains upon the earth that had likely taken Derek's warnings away from him forever.

So Stiles let his hands sink into the fur like a decision, like the last he would ever make, gripping it as he raised his head to glare at the two men wearing high-tech night vision goggles. His breaths were heavy in his chest, his ire and despair building like a tidal wave. It drew from every crevice of his body building and climbing higher and higher, like the blood in his body had abruptly changed direction and started to gather and bubble in his core.

“You can pry him from my cold dead fingers.”

Stiles' hands tightened into the dark, wet fur beneath them, fingers twisting through the clumping strands. Derek's wolf body laid still and unmoving, and Stiles told himself he was just shaking too much to tell. He was trying so very hard not to think about what it could mean. Not now. He was going to ignore the warm blood coating his hands, already cooling in the night air. He could think about it later. He could break down screaming later. He could rail at the woods around him and howl in agony at the dark sky later. Not now. Right now, he needed to protect this body that was still warm beneath his fingers. So, swallowing down the painful lump in his throat and the burning in his eyes, he gripped harder, tugging the body closer against him, leaning over it protectively when it gave no resistance.

“Sorry,” laughed the first hunter — the polite one, taking a few steps forward. His gun was pointed off to the ground at his side, clearly deciding Stiles was no threat. He leaned in. “What was that?”

“I said,” Stiles hissed, raising burning eyes in the hunter's direction, “you want him? You'll have to pry him from my cold dead fingers.”

“We don't kill humans, idiot,” the hunter snorted, and behind him, the other hunter grunted an affirmative. “So just move aside. We're just here for him.”

“I don't think you heard me,” Stiles said, his voice low and vicious. He could feel a frothing in his chest, bubbling anger in the pot that was his body, ready to overflow. “If you come any closer, I'm going to kill you with my bare hands. You don't touch him. Not at all. Over my _dead. Fucking. Body.”_

“Just shoot him,” said the second hunter with a sigh. “Use the tranq.”

Without missing a beat, the first hunter drew a second gun, pointing it at Stiles' chest.

“Sorry, kid.” And pulled the trigger.

He startled back then, eyes widening.

Stiles stared straight at him, eyes beginning to glow white as the dart dropped a few feet away, the needle disintegrated.

“Oh, you'll be sorry,” Stiles said lowly, hands digging into the soft damp fur and clenching tight. “I _promise.”_ He narrowed his blazing white eyes on them, a faint image of Derek in his mind's eye, turning his back on Stiles, claws out and ready to fight to the death. He thought of Derek who continually told him to flee.

_“Stiles, run.”_

An ironic smile twisted Stiles' mouth, though he lacked even the slightest inclination of humor. His soul bled black with rage and devastation. It felt like he would never be whole again.

“Now, run.”

**Author's Note:**

> There will be no continuation to this. It's just the one scene. K thanks!
> 
> Tumblr: [@floreswrites](https://floreswrites.tumblr.com/)  
> Twitter: [@nanadanonini](https://twitter.com/nanadanonini)


End file.
